


Blessed are the merciful

by Angelicasdean



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Arthur Whump, Concerned Hosea, Don't read if you're squeamish, Hurt Arthur Morgan, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Made Myself Cry, If I do say so myself, Psychological Torture, SO, Torture, angry dutch, good luck, loads of blood, those goddamn pinkertons, yeah pretty dark shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2019-12-07 20:51:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18240059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelicasdean/pseuds/Angelicasdean
Summary: [Discontinued for now]- 28/7/19"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy,"It was going too well, if Arthur had to be honest, bound to go downhill at some point.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings if you didn't read the tags: Lots blood, torture and just general nasty stuff. If you struggled with any type of mental or physical abuse, I would suggest you skip this. Stay safe, Stay woke.
> 
> Get ready folk, this is pretty dark.

It was going too well, if Arthur had to be honest, bound to go downhill at some point. Just happens to be that he's the one to tumble down. In a sense, he's happy he's the one to take the fall rather than the entire gang; lord knows they already have been through enough. 

It starts out with a man calling him out from Blackwater while he was strolling the streets of Valentine with Uncle and the girls, Arthur resolves that he has to chase him when the man had run towards the Sheriffs office and ends up with half the town on his ass as he hauls it. Of course, his luck, he gets cornered and lassoed into oblivion, guns taken and head hit "just for precaution". It’s all a blur now as he gets hit again and again, some Agent tried to get him to talk but that didn’t go the way he wanted.

In all the horror stories he’s heard from other Outlaws, Arthur had doubted that they are true, exaggerated maybe, but all stem from a truth. They hung him from his wrist, chained his feet to the ground. They started with talking, trying to negotiate with him, snitch on Dutch and the others. Again, that didn’t work well, and they ended up taking their frustration out on him.

It's been a few hours since his initial capture, as far as Arthur can tell, time really moves slow when you’re hanging in a dark cell alone. For all he knows it could have been an hour, or a day. Doesn’t really matter, one way or another he’ll get out. If its too much for Dutch to come and rescue him, he’ll finesse his way out. For now, he keeps himself sane, counting to a hundred, flexing his aching arm and whistling a familiar tune.

Agent what's-his-name (Milton?) comes around again, from the glimpse Arthur had gotten, it seemed around night time; Lawmen holding lanterns outside. “Mister Morgan,” he greets with a wicked smile and Arthur straightens, standing on the tips of his toes as the chains around his wrists elevate him slightly.

“Nice to see you again,” Arthur replies with a tight smile as Milton strides towards him with the confidence of an Adonis.

“Surely, Mister Morgan,” Milton agrees as he grabs a stool and sits in front of Arthur, “Enjoying the stay, so far?”

“Oh, yes, you’re men have excellent service,” Arthur retorts with an overly sweet tone and Milton grins wolfishly, “I think we can skip the pleasantries,”

“As you wish, Mister Morgan,” Milton nods once, “My requests are the same: Dutch Van Der Linde’s location,”

“Don’t know,” Arthur says simply, attempting a shrug but straining his shoulder in the process, “Like I said, haven’t seen him in months,”

“So you weren’t there during the Blackwater Massacre?” Milton raises an eyebrow and Arthur nods, “I can’t bring myself to believe you, Morgan,”

“Well… too bad, I guess,” Arthur says with a tilt of his head and Milton nodded again, standing with a swish of his coat.

“Indeed, it is,” Milton muttered, taking a step closer to Arthur, “We will break you, Mister Morgan, you will talk, just depends how much pain you want to save yourself,”

“I reckon I can take what you pitch,” Arthur squints against the threat, face twisted in stubbornness and Milton smirks, retracting his step and sighing happily as a smile rests on his face.

“We’ll see, Mister Morgan,” Milton says as he turns and leaves with a smile smirk over his shoulder. Arthur stares behind where the man had just been before sighing, deciding that this isn’t going to be any type of good and realizing that his confidence had now dwindled into anxiety for what to come. They had already beat him to hell and back, what else can they do?

A lot more, he realizes bitterly, fear seeping in his bones as he slumps into the chains, leaving them to carry his entire weight as his feet swing freely an inch above the ground. He lets his head drop and hopes he at least gets out of this alive.


	2. Chapter 2

A frazzled Uncle and Karen was last of what Hosea had wanted to see, following news of Arthur missing even more distressing. The events, though blurry, didn’t paint a good picture as Uncle hurried to explain. Of course, they couldn’t get away from what had happened in Blackwater. Arthur hadn’t even taken action in the shooting and he’d shouldered the burden, guilty by association, he guesses.

 

Dutch had ordered them away, quietly sending Charles and John to see if they can sniff anything about Arthur, if he’d gotten away or not. Once they set off, Dutch had tried to subdue the gossip running around, assuring everyone that Arthur is probably hiding somewhere till he loses the lawmen completely.

 

Still, he and Hosea chat anxiously in the privacy of Dutch’s tent. “It’s not the first time,” Hosea says tiredly, “But from what Uncle says-”

 

“I’m sure he’s okay,” Dutch says quietly, as they share a glance, “he’s… he’s a good fighter, I’m sure he’s okay,”

 

“I hope so,” Hosea sighs, pushing himself to his feet, “any word comes around, tell me,”

 

“As per usual,” Dutch nods his agreement and Hosea exits with a worried frown.

 

___________________________________________________

Arthur’s head bounces temporarily as the lawman punches him again, for the hundredth time it feels like. It had reached a point where his face feels like a hot platter rather than a body part, each punch sending heat and pain down his neck and into his brain. He groans as the man laughs, kicking him with sick delight. Milton stands in a corner, watching like a hawk as the same question gets thrown over and over again.

 

_Ready to talk yet?_

 

No, Arthur always answers, ready to face another beating. A few punches and kicks he can handle, nothing out of the ordinary, he’d been through a load of fights in his past. But they continue, more and more brutal.

 

Punches turn into choking, kicks into twisting his limbs painfully. At one point they had overestimated Arthur’s ability to hold his breath, and he’d fallen unconscious under their choke hold. Milton hadn’t been merciful enough to let him wake up on his own terms. No, that would almost be human of him.

 

Arthur had awoken to ice cold water being dumped on him, at first it had been a relief against his burning skin but soon the relief washed as he started to shiver. Milton had asked again, Dutch-his location, for all this to end.

 

 _No,_ Arthur had said, teeth chattering together as he tries to suppress his shivers. Milton had sighed and returned to his post, another beating taking place. Arthur closed his eyes, no longer trusting them not to betray him and let painful tear escape.

 

___________________________________________________

“I’m afraid we have bad news,” Charles says as he follows a furious John into camp, “It seems that the Pinkertons have him,”

“Some drunken fools were all talking about it in the saloon,” John fumed as he walks towards Dutch, “you know how sick those sons of bitches are, we need to get him back!”

 

“Are you sure they have him?” Dutch asked, eyes ignoring John as they catch Charles’.

 

“It’s the only thing we got,” Charles says solemnly and Dutch nods.

 

“Okay,” Dutch says calmly, “We’ll get him back,”

 

___________________________________________________

“Another day,” the guard sings as he grabs Arthur by the hair, “another chance to beat the shit out of you,”

 

“That Shakespeare who said that?” Arthur asks with a groan as his head falls, the guard rounds around him, grabbing Arthur by the jaw and fixing him a rage fulled glare. Whatever had angered these men, made them a bunch of bulls with a thirst for blood, Arthur was sure it was god forsaken. Maybe they had been born that way, sadistic little shits who cover themselves under the veil of law. So-called civilization, couldn’t even kill a man before tearing him apart.

 

“you’re a funny man, huh?” the guard spits out angrily and Arthur wants to smile teasingly but can not, face swollen tight. He’s sure he’s not recognizable, wonders if he dies, will his bruises fade or will he forever carry the shame of falling under these creatures who so freely call themselves human. He might be an Outlaw, but he has the decency to not torture people. He, for one, doesn’t like hurting people, he does what’s needed not what’s right. Often, he realizes, the two are very far apart.

 

But that doesn’t matter right now, the man in front of him sneers a nasty laugh as he pushes Arthur down by the shoulder, tugging at his already raw wrists. Arthur groans briefly, vision darkening as a small trickle of blood tickles itself up his arm. Sadistic bastards, Arthur thinks bitterly, oh how he would love to stab them in the throat. Though, he realizes now that even if he did manage to escape on his own, get the chains off, he wouldn’t be able to throw a punch. No matter how hard he can pray.

 

Another punch, Arthur bends as the chain rattles and the man follows, lifting Arthur by his neck as Arthur struggles to get his feet under him. The fire in the man’s eye, like a hungry lion looking down on its prey. Predatory glint and all. Arthur coughs as he chokes, legs fruitlessly struggling against its restraints.

 

___________________________________________________

“Do you know where they could be holding him?” Hosea asks as they regroup. John, Charles, Hosea and Dutch. Rest all left at camp to carry on their usual business while keeping an eye on each other.

 

“Only place I know is Sisika, their prison, North-East of this fancy new world city called Saint-Denis,” John informs as he pulls on his reins, turning to Dutch, “I heard real bad things happen to men like us up there, Dutch,” he says, worry leaking in his voice.

 

“We’ll get him before anything too bad can happen,” Dutch assures, though he has an itch under his skin. But calm as he has to be, they ride towards Saint-Denis. The worry shared between the four of them heavy as the stars guide them through the darkness. Hope is all Dutch has at this point. Two days now, a day to find out what had happened and a day to round them all up and get going and now, the third day is breaking.

 

___________________________________________________

Arthur shivers as the water washes the blood away from his face, some seeps into his mouth and he swallows eagerly, ignoring the coppery taste of his own blood as his throat burns. Milton is sitting today, partner beside him as the usual guard lashes on Arthur.

 

He lost track of time, body now too sore to voluntarily move, wrists on fire from the weight of his own body as he stinks and starves through his chains. A couple more weeks, if he’s alive by then, and he could weasel his hand through the chains, probably.

 

_Want to talk yet?_

 

No, Arthur grits out, but no sound comes out. He’s too in his mind, in his pain to bring himself to talk. Mind is a fuzz, shapes that should be sharper filling his vision.

 

“Guess it’s time to up the ante, hm?” Milton muses, and the guard bends to Arthur’s level with a wild grin.

 

“Hear that? The real fun is about to start, cowboy,” he teases and Arthur closes his eyes for a moment. A nightmare, this is what this is shaping to be, a hellish nightmare. Arthur shudders at the sight of the whip, the guard takes it happily, snapping it dangerously close to Arthur’s hand as he tests it out. Arthur guesses he’s about to have a lot of time to get to know the whip personally, more accurately the whip will get to know him. Still, he holds his glare strong, one eyed as it is, as he stares at Milton with intense hatred.


	3. Chapter 3

“This is stupid,” John whispers as he drags the body off the shoreline, “Can’t we just shoot up the place?”

 

“And risk him getting killed?” Charles whispers back, undressing as he puts on the outfit, “It’s better this way, we get in, we get out, no one knows what happens,”

 

“How’re we going to blend in any way?” John asks as he strips the dead guard, shrugging off his coat and tucking it into the one of the canoes they’d taken.

 

“You keep your mouth shut, that’s how,” Dutch hisses, unexpected anger at all the sudden questioning making him shift on his feet, he and Hosea are fully dressed now, Charles and John fixing up their cuffs, “You and Hosea should go together, I’ll go with Charles,”

 

“We meet by the canoe at sunset, share whatever we got,” Hosea informs calmly as they part way, “I need you to keep your head, John, we might get out of here alive but Arthur… we don’t know how he is,”

 

“I understand, Hosea,” John nods as they near a guard, “lets get this over with,”

 

___________________________________________

Another hit, Arthur screams again, voice breaking as his throat sears. This is what torture is described as in those books Hosea had read him, he never wished to experience it. Whatever he’d been through in the past would never live up to this, combined and tripled. Whipped, again and again, to the point where Arthur can feel his skin peel under the cracks.

 

_Talk, and we can kill you quickly._

 

No, Arthur had grit out, He’d die before he becomes a rat. Dutch had given him a life, a home and a family, to hell if he’d throw that away just to save himself some pain. He wonders if the gang know where he is, if they’re even concerned.

 

“Tough bastard, are you?” the guard sneers as he raises the whip, the crack it sounds making Arthur flinch before any pain does. A new gash, now from his shoulder down to his stomach. Milton sits, amused and impressed, but mostly amused, “gonna make you talk, I can do this all year,”

 

A year of this? No, Arthur would figure a way to kill himself before they can. Another hit, he doesn’t scream, his mouth hangs open as he gasps, no longer can he make a sound.

 

It’s only been four days.

 

___________________________________________

“Hey, hey!” A guard calls and Hosea pauses, coolly turning around as John stands a few paces away, “You the new recruits Burningwood talked about?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Hosea replies quickly, “We we’re just trying to figure out the layout of the place,” he adds as he turns to John who nods in agreement.

 

“What’s your names? I’m Luca Strawly,”

 

“Patrick Hellfield,” Hosea answers curtly, Luca nods once as he looks towards John.

 

“Uh, Jason Litterman,” John mumbles off the top of his head and Luca eyes him strangely, “My pa really hated his name too, I know,”

 

“Whatever, you can tour around the place later. Streighson wants some help with the chain gang up on district three, that’s the one on your right,” Luca points, “Whatever you do though, stay clear of building three,”

 

“Why?” John asks curiously and Luca pauses, looking like he’s debating telling them.

___________________________________________

“Well… I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if you knew...” Luca sighs, “We’ve got Morgan there, Agent Milton had made security extra tight around that area, heard he was a fighter and didn’t want to risk it. I only delivered food to Kalewinsky there once and from what I heard, it isn’t going good,” he explains eagerly, “Morgan sounds like a real villain, let me tell ya,” Luca adds, “But Milton and Broodworth are giving him a run for his money, from what Broodie keeps saying, Morgan’s real messed up, wouldn’t talk no, no, sir. I guess I can respect that much loyalty,” Luca places a hand over his heart with a solemn nod, “Don’t tell no one I told you, ya hear?” Luca whispers dramatically, “this is top secret stuff,”

 

“Yes, sir,” John grits out, barely holding back his anger as Luca walks off. John is immediately by Hosea’s side, latching onto his arm, “Sounds bad, Hosea, we have to get him out of there,”

 

“Yes we do, but we can’t be too rash, we need to regroup first,” Hosea says calmly, though there is anger hidden in the tense lines littering his face. John nods, though dissatisfied and they continue on.

 

___________________________________________

They had stopped, Arthur notes to himself. His skin still stings unbearably as he hands, breathing heavily as he tries to control the pain. They’d left him to catch his breath, he supposes, they’d come back soon enough.

 

He tries to shift, pushing himself up on his toes as he tries to relief the pressure on his wrists. His entire arm is numb at this point, cold and hurting from the abuse but the pain doesn’t hold a candle to how Arthur’s torso feels like.

 

The door creeks again, Arthur lowers himself again, swinging for a moment before the usual guard grabs him by his hair, he stares at Arthur for a moment before smiling maniacally. Arthur stares back, eyes forced to a squint.

 

“Hungry?” the guard asks and Arthur doesn’t answer, after a beat, the guard’s face turning red in anger, “I said,” he growls, shaking Arthur’s head violently. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut as the shaking makes him dizzy, “are you hungry?” the man breaths and Arthur opens his eyes again, swallowing down bile as his stomach wages a war on itself.

 

“No,” Arthur grits out, groaning as the hold on his hair loosens and his head falls. He had been hungry a few hours ago, he knows he’ll be hungry in a few more. But now, he can’t bring himself to yearn for food.

“Suits you,” the guard shrugs, turning and picking up a plate Arthur hadn’t noticed and squatting in front of him, “you know, the food here ain’t that appetizing anyway,” he says as he stuffs a spoonful of whatever the plate holds, “I wanna talk to you, Arthur,” the man sighs sadly, “but it won’t be much use would it?”

 

“Not really,” Arthur grunts and the guard nods, taking another spoonful and twisting it to examine its sides. It looks like some type of potato that had been horribly treated, gray and lumpy, Arthur winces as his stomach lurches.

 

“You still think they’re worth it, bunch of degenerates with no future?” the guards laughs humorlessly, “Milton thinks you’re some big bad that Van Der Linde and his believers would rake hell for, but Milton’s a fool,”

 

“Sure,” Arthur answers compliantly, heart stuttering at the recurring thought.

 

No one is looking for him.

 

But that can’t be true, it can’t. Sure, Arthur and John are still rocky but they’re brothers, been brothers for half their lives. Dutch calls him a son, at least he’d so something. And Hosea, he’d always told him they’d have his back, always came for him whenever he got arrested.

 

 _But_ , Arthur thinks bitterly, _A police station isn’t the same as the Pinkertons._

 

___________________________________________

“We got something,” John says eagerly, sinking to his knees beside Charles as Hosea slowly lowers himself, “Some fool said Arthur’s in building three,” he explains as he leans anxiously to his side.

 

“He also said that they have even more security on the building, we have to have a good plan,” Hosea adds tensely. Dutch nods as Charles crosses his legs together.

 

“I managed to get some guard to talk, from what I’ve heard, Arthur’s getting it rough,” Charles informs unhappily.

 

“How rough?” John asks and Charles shakes his head, “How rough, Charles?”

 

“ _Whipping_ , apparently,” Dutch growled as his face twists in anger, “Some... _person_ called Broodie, or so they call him, is handling the...ah, physical aspect of the interrogation,”

 

“That’s-” John fumes as he rocks on the balls of his feet, “We have to get him back,”

 

“That’s what we’ll do, John,” Hosea assures, “What’s our plan?” he asks as he turns to Dutch.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur had managed it. By accident if anything, but he managed to finally free his hand from the chain.

 

He’d just been trying to relieve the pressure off his battered shoulder by pushing himself off, was surprised when his wrist stung terribly and slumped beside him. He’s tugged on his other arm and was left hanging one armed for a moment as his brain struggled to catch up. When he had realized that, shit, he’s halfway free, he tried to free his other hand.

 

Somewhere in his mind, he came up with the genius idea of using his own blood as a lubricant, since it’s so freely available and his wrists are already on the job. Finally, with a little pushing and teeth grinding, he’d fallen to his knees with a suppressed scream. His back and shoulders flared as he breathed quickly out of his mouth, breath coming in in short, strained gasps.

 

His instincts overcome his pain and he reaches to fidget with the chains around his feet, his hand shakes terribly but he doesn’t pay it much attention. He runs his fingers around the seams, trying to find a way to break them off. They’re sealed tight and now he notices how his skin has peeled, with a wince he scans his surroundings, vision swimming as he tries to focus on anything that might help him.

 

He can see the plate the guard had eaten in, the flask Milton so often drank from, a glass of water and the box where they store that god awful whip of theirs. Arthur pushes himself up shakily, legs feeling like jelly as he shuffles forward slowly, chains scraping against the cold floor underneath. The lantern on his left makes a small knife glint and Arthur can feel a bit of hope seep in, he can get the chains off if he manged to get his hands on the knife.

 

He shuffles quicker, pulling on his wounds but he doesn’t mind, so close to freedom. He gets pulled back as he stumbles, chains stretched as much as they can. So close, too close to give up. He stretches his hand, grips the edge of the table and uses what's left of his dwindling strength to pull it towards him. It screeches loudly and Arthur winces, sound raising panic and pain in his brain as he scrambled to grasp the knife and slowly lower himself to the ground, he jams the knife where the key is supposed to go and twists, after a few twists, the telltale sound of clinking fills the room and Arthur breathes, pushing the chains off and standing again, stumbling towards the wall as he supports himself.

 

Well, he’s free know, but he can’t fight, not with the state of his back and arms. He will give them as much hell as he can though, he won’t succumb to them, not easily at least. He makes his way towards the door; it seems they hadn’t heard the table screech or didn’t give a shit, whatever it was, he’s thankful for it. He leans as he tries to devise a plan, if he runs out, frazzled as he is, he’ll get shot before he can get out a swear.

 

He can wait, can attack them when they’re least expecting.

 

He nods to himself, deciding that sooner rather than later, Milton and his side demon will come along and he can at least take them down before they surely take _him_ down. At least it’s as dignified of a death as he’ll get in a place like this.

 

_________________________________________________

“Hello, officer,” Dutch greeted quietly, Charles and John trailing far away from him as Hosea scouts the place. The officer scans Dutch curiously before nodding to let him continue to speak, “I...Uh, I was wondering if Broodworth is here? Someone had posted a telegram for him and Officer Strawly sent me to fetch him,”

 

“Broodworth?” The officer says as his brows furrow, “No, I think he’s having a smoke break somewhere, you’ll be better off searching for him in Milton’s office,”

 

“I can get there?” Dutch asks, surprised and the officer shrugs. Dutch glances behind him and John gives him a slight nod, “Can you show me? I’m new here, uh, just recruited,”

 

“So you’re the Burningwood? Thought Pilton was drunk or something, which district you got recruited from?” The officer asks, eyebrows raised.

 

“The third? Under...Captain Klien...” Dutch lies, words slow as he struggles to come up with a backstory. The officer looks at him in disbelief, a look Dutch knows every well, the look of someone seeing through his lie.

 

“Friend, you either are clueless, lying or counting me a fool,” the officer says as he raises his rifle, “now, who _really_ are you?” He asks menacingly and Dutch opens his mouth, probably to weasel his way out the situation with a lie he doesn’t have. Luckily, Charles is quick to act, stabbing the man through the neck slickly and turning to Dutch, wiping his bloodied hand on the inside of his stolen coat.

 

“That coulda gone smoother,” John notes lightly as he passes Dutch, “Come on, hide the body somewhere,”

 

They do just that, Charles dragging the corpse to a bush nearby, its thick and wide, perfect for hiding a body, at least for a few hours before the smell starts to blossom. A few hours is all they need, enough to kill, charm or deceit the men inside and get Arthur out.

 

They split up once inside the building, John distracting a couple of officers as Dutch and Charles sneak behind them and take them down, hands clasped tightly over their mouths to muffle their choking. They continue the pattern, John distracting while the other two kill whoever is standing guard. It’s partly messy, having to drag bodies into shadows and move quickly before someone notices. They make their way up till a hallway, Charles counts five men standing guard to a door.

 

“That must be where they’re keeping him,” John whispers and Dutch nods, “We need to draw them away,”

 

“I can do that,” Charles offers but Dutch shakes his head, he turns to John.

 

“You should go,” Dutch whispers and John opens his mouth to argue, “We don’t know what state Arthur's in, if he needs help, Charles is bigger than you and can probably carry him,”

 

“Fine,” John agrees, “I’ll create a diversion and wait outside,”

 

“Let's try to keep this as bullet free as possible,” Dutch hisses and John rolls his eyes but nods, “Good luck, son,”

 

_________________________________________________

Milton does come around, his torture buddy towards them. They pause at the sight of the empty chains and Arthur takes his chance and leaps at them, grunting as he stabs Milton in the neck quickly, his friend, the guard who so viciously hurt him, grabs Arthur by the shoulder, throwing him back.

 

Arthur screams, breath escaping him as the guards outside hurry to the situation. Arthur doesn’t wallow in his pain, gritting on his teeth and swiping at the guard who tries to push him back again. Arthur stumbles as he pushes himself to his feet, vision blurring again as his eyes unfocused for a moment as his head throbs something fierce. The guard charges, slamming Arthur against the wall and Arthur gasps in pain, he’s pretty sure he blacked out for a second as he blinks away the dots in his vision.

 

He grunts, kicking wildly at the man until he finally strikes gold, foot connecting with the guards crotch. He doubles over and Arthur quickly follows, stabbing the man in the neck in similar fashion to Milton and watching with sick satisfaction as he chokes on his own blood.

 

He glances around, confused for a moment about why there seems to be no one else to fight. He doesn’t linger stumbling out of the room, knife ready to strike as he scans the hall in paranoia, he hears gunshots and freezes, rounding a corner and spotting two guards shooting to the outside. He stares dumbfounded for a moment before turning and heading the other way.

 

Something is happening outside, he realizes slowly, someone had started an attack. Lucky, Arthur thinks as he shivers lightly, feeling tired all of a sudden but stubborn enough to keep going. He can figure his way out of here or die trying. He finds a door and pushes it, weaker than he’s like.

 

The gunshots sound louder and Arthur whines at the sudden flash of pain in his temple, he brings a hand to press against his head as he unstably walks a few steps forward before the headache completely renders him useless. He feels himself sink to his knees, knife dropping as he gasps against the dizziness, his stomach rioting again. Arthur doesn’t even know _what_ he’ll throw up, all he’s ingested in the past few days had been blood muddied water they dumped on him.

 

Still he retches horribly before wiping a hand over his mouth and blinking away the dizziness, he pushes himself up again, realizing that he doesn’t know where he is, how he can get out. But, Hosea and Dutch didn’t raise a quitter, did they?

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I don't really like how this turned out, i tried to write in like six different ways, and this is the love child of them. Enjoy and thank you so much for the support! Y'all are amazing.

“What the _hell_ happened?” Hosea asks tensely as he grabs a rifle off the ground, the gunshots ring around them as he and John try to get to Dutch and Charles. John shouts a response that doesn’t sound to Hosea, the facility’s alarm now blaring.

 

They share a glance before they nod and set off together, running through the bullets and barreling through the door. Immediately, John tackles a guard who aims his rifle at Hosea, shooting him in the neck before urging Hosea to get going.

 

Hosea pushes himself to his feet, calling out for Dutch as they run up endless flights of stairs, “We should split up, someone should find Arthur,” John suggests as they pause on the staircase. Hosea shakes his head, and John turns with a huff, “We need to get to him! What if-What if-”

 

“We need to regroup, John,” Hosea says in short breath, “Then we go and get Arthur, we need to protect each other, we’re _under attack”_

 

“But-”

 

“No buts,” Hosea cuts off and John sets his jaw, “I want him back as much as you do, but we won’t be any good if we’re dead,”

 

“Okay,” John agrees begrudgingly, clapping Hosea’s shoulder, “We should get going,”

 

____________________________

“Shit!” Dutch yells in alarm as the guards run towards the room where Arthur supposedly is, most probably is, he should say. Who he supposes is Milton and Broodworth had arrived only a few seconds before, Dutch had not been too worried about it, two more men to draw away that’s it. But it sounded like a fight had started and the guards sure did yell their assurance.

 

“ _Get him!”_

 

“ _Shit,_ _Milton’s_ _dead!”_

 

Charles moves faster than Dutch can, runs towards a guard and tackling him to the ground, grabbing his rifle and executing him. Dutch follows, throwing his knife at another guard as Charles shoots the last two. “Arthur,” Charles breathes, waving Dutch off. Before they can get to Arthur, thundering footsteps echo, they share a glance and Dutch reloads his rifle.

 

“I’ll help,” Dutch says quietly as men start to round the corner.

 

____________________________

John runs around without knowing where he should go, Hosea tailing him as they shoulder their way into rooms, gunning down whatever officers are there. He can hear soldiers filling the building as they go up and down countless flights of stairs. He doesn’t know how they hadn’t found each other yet, but he continues, determined enough to shrug off the strain in his leg. Hosea doesn’t argue either, though he can hear his labored breathing behind him.

 

____________________________

Arthur ignores the stabbing in his brain as he wonders aimlessly, he found a dead guard and grabbed his rifle, he can’t see straight but nevertheless, a gun is a gun.

 

He hears shouting as men run around, Arthur hides in the shadows, blinking stupidly as he tries to focus on what the shouting is about. His vision spins as he peaks and strains his hearing over the annoying alarm echoing.

 

“ _They’re in Building Three!”_

 

“ _Come on, Come on, they’re only_ _four_ _men!”_

 

“ _Morgan escaped!”_

 

“ _Milton’s dead!”_

 

He winces as he settles in the shadows, squinting as tendrils of pain fill his head again. He breathes through his nose, coughing as pain hits him all at once. His body had picked the worse time to feel sorry for itself, but Arthur does not give up, he sits, side against the dirty wall of the building as he breathes and tries to get a grip on himself.

 

He blinks quickly; the shouts dying down, and he strains to hear any sound again. When nothing reaches his ears, he stands, stumbling to where the nearest cover is.

 

“There he is!” Someone shouts and Arthur freezes, hands trembling as he tries to hold his rifle straight, he turns backing away as three guards run towards him.

 

He winces as he raises the rifle, shoulder searing before he can shoot and he groans dropping the rifle uselessly as his vision darkens. _Shit_ , he thinks to himself, _not the type of hell_ _I_ _wanted to raise_.

 

“Arthur!” One of the men call for him and he flinches, a hand coming to touch his arm, “Arthur, it’s me!” the man says frantically, his voice is incredibly familiar, but Arthur struggles to put his finger on it “Dutch!” he shouts and everything clicks, John, John is here and he’s calling for Dutch, which logically means he’s here too, “Arthur, shit, what the fuck did they do to you?” John says angrily as he drapes one of Arthur’s arms around his shoulder, “Charles, come help me!”

 

“John,” Arthur croaks, relief filling his chest. He hadn’t even realized he’d been scared of being abandoned, now that he’s getting carried by his friends, his _family_. Arthur smiles to himself, body feeling too heavy as he drags his feet.

 

“Right here, Arthur,” John assures, “Dutch, me, Hosea and Charles, all here,” he adds, “We’ll get you home safe soon, just need you to keep awake,”

 

“Rather go to sleep,” Arthur mumbles and John chuckles dryly, “Thank you,” Arthur whispers, leaning heavily on the two men helping him, his ears ring for a moment before all sounds merge together like he’s underwater, “Thank you-”

 

“Arthur, shit, _Charles_ ,” John says frantically as Arthur feels himself drown in tiredness, the void of darkness greeting him as he falls into what could be his last sleep.

____________________________

“Dutch, Hosea!” John shouts as he drags Arthur, struggling with Charles to move him through the rocky terrain. Hosea turns sharply, beckoning Dutch to come with him as they run towards John, “He passed out,” John grits, “He’s messed up real bad, Dutch,”

“I can see, son,” Dutch says, voice leaking with anger as his eyes scan frantically over Arthur’s body, cuts and bruises and numerous red marks over where the whip had hit but not quite cut. He shakes his head, “I’ll get the canoes ready,” he informs as he hurries in front of them, the guards had trickled down to a few. No one really knows who they should be shooting at, all those who knew Dutch and his boys were intruders had been killed. The alarm is still blaring around them but the field is clear.

 

Dutch pushes the first canoe with a grunt, looking over his shoulder and briefly catching sight of John and Charles nearby.

 

“Come on, boys,” Dutch whispers as he pushes the second canoe, Hosea ushers them when he’s sure the coast is clear, grabbing Arthur’s feet and helping them the last few feet. The three men work silently on moving Arthur into the canoe, Dutch supervising as he frequently winces at the horrid gashes strewn across his son’s body. He hopes he doesn’t get any kind of infection, this alone will take months to recover from, and who knows how long to get over all the mental shit.

 

“I’ll row,” Charles says to Dutch, “John, you ride with Hosea,” Charles waves him and John nods, looking a little sick as his eyes rake Arthur’s appearance, “Go on, before they find us,”

 


	6. Chapter 6

Consciousness comes slow, Arthur doesn’t particularly want it since it’s always accompanied by pain. He doesn’t fight it either, doesn’t think he can. He can feel himself rocking and quiet voices around him, something solid and scratchy against his cheek.

 

His curiosity pulls at him, a bit of fear from who the voice are too, as he finally lets himself be awake. He opens his eyes slowly, for a moment everything is a mass of blackness but after a few blinks, his vision clears. He can see the moon above him, setting twinkles on the water under him. He’s on a boat, he realizes dully.

 

Slowly, memories come back. John, he remembers, John, Charles, Hosea, and Dutch. They came for him. He blinks again, wincing as his body stings with every breath he takes in. _At least I’m breathing_ , Arthur thinks as he tries to move, successfully pulling on his shoulder and letting out a groan. The voices quieten and Arthur blinks again, pushing himself weakly from the scratchy material.

 

“Arthur,” Dutch says quietly, “Hey, you’re okay, you’re safe,” he assures as Arthur reaches a hand to place it on Dutch’s chest, “hey, slow,” Dutch muses as Arthur slowly sits up, “hold on to us,” Arthur turns his head slowly, Charles swimming into his vision as he struggles to feel stable. He’s ninety percent sure he has some type of concussion as his vision blurs randomly and Arthur closes his eyes against the nausea washes over him.

 

“I think he’s going to throw up,” Charles says slowly, “Arthur,” Charles whispers, voice close, “Come here, move with me,” Arthur feels a hand on his shoulder and flinches away, pain and fear overtaking his senses, not at _all_ helping with his churning stomach. He opens his eyes as he completely loses his balance and topples sideways, Dutch catches him as the boat rocks dangerously. Arthur doesn’t pay it much attention as fire catches in his body, Dutch’s hand squeezing tightly on his sensitive skin and he cries out desperately.

 

Arthur can hear Dutch shush him gently, but the blood in his ears doesn’t let him hear much, they push him to sit again and Arthur whimpers against his own will, bile in his throat as his whimpers turn into gags and he lurches forwards instinctively.

 

“Hold him,” Dutch says and Charles gingerly places a hand on Arthur’s arm, who’s too busy retching to give it much thought, “Christ, what is he even throwing up?” Dutch whispers, anger, and panic blurring together as he smooths a hand over Arthur’s head. He can feel a lump on the base of his skull and tsks.

 

“He needs a doctor,” Charles worries and Dutch nods, “Can we manage that?”

 

“I don’t think so,” Dutch sighs, shaking his head, “We just busted him out of the government’s most secured jail, a few hours and his face will be all over New Hanover,”

 

“What’ll we do then?” Charles asks and Dutch breathes in deep, running a hand through his hair as he thinks. “His injuries are severe, Dutch, he… he can die,”

 

“I know, I know,” Dutch mumbles, “But...we’ll do our best,”

 

______________________________

Once on land, Dutch sends John to fetch their horses from the stable. John complies albeit with his share of complaints. Charles and Dutch hoist Arthur from the canoe, with Hosea’s help, they manage to disappear into the trees, setting up a makeshift camp.

 

Arthur seems to be awake, though his grasp on what’s happening is limited to: Getting Helped.

 

His eyes are hazy as Hosea inspects his wounds, watching them as Dutch and Charles hold him upright, too concerned to let his abused back anywhere near dirt. Hosea sighs after a moment, taking off the coat he’d borrowed and pressing gently against Arthur’s bleeding side. That gets a reaction, Arthur hissing as he twists away, only successfully hurting himself. Hosea shushes him, whispering his apologies and assurances as he wrapped the coat around Arthur’s torso.

 

“Dutch?” John asks as he nears, Silver Dollar, Taima and The Count behind him. Dutch waves him over and Charles goes to his horse, digging into his saddlebag and taking out some bandages, water and a few cans of food.

 

“Here,” Charles offers the bandages to Hosea who nods thankfully, “I don’t have any liquor on me, but that should help,” he adds, turning to Dutch, “We should get some food into him, he looks starved,”

 

“I don’t doubt he is,” Dutch says wearily, “We need to set camp somewhere, not here, a few miles away maybe,”

 

“You think we can move him?” John asks and Dutch sighs, turning away to look at Arthur’s face, battered as it is.

 

“We have to,” Dutch asserted firmly, glancing at Hosea’s work, the bandages already seeping blood from Arthur’s wrists. He shudders and stands, “After Hosea’s finished, we move up west,”

 

____________________________________-

They manage to move Arthur with minimal damage, Hosea rides with him on Silver Dollar. He sways dangerously as Hosea struggles to ride in a canter and deciding it’s better to trot. Silver Dollar shakes his head as Hosea keeps pulling on the reigns, holding Arthur with one hand. It’s a messy ordeal, Dutch tells them that they can set up camp after an hour or so of struggling.

 

Charles helps Arthur off the horse, John quick by his side as Hosea and Dutch lead the horses deeper into the trees. They work like clockwork, everyone silently understanding each other, Charles setting up a fire, John working on the tents as Dutch and Hosea ease Arthur into the most comfortable position.

 

Charles heats up some beans and coffee, each of them scooping up the food quickly and discussing if Arthur's in a good enough state to eat. Hosea resolves to at least try to give him some water, the blood loss making him look sickly which no one really likes.

 

Charles thinks silently about how much torture he must have endured, and to get out of it alone, kill two men and walk long enough to almost lose _them_. All very fascinating, makes him respect him even more, sure, John and the others had always teased Arthur about being their ‘strong man’ but no one really realizes how _much_ he’s willing to pay.

 

He sighs to himself, taking the first guarding shift and leaving the three men to fret over their fallen friend.


	7. Chapter 7

Arthur spends most night bouncing between the land of the living and that of the dead. He distantly remembers forcing water down, someone wrapping him in a coat and Hosea obsessively reminding him that _you’ll be fine_.

 

In the time he spends awake, he doesn’t get out much, makes a bunch of noises he wanted to be sentences, managed to tell Dutch to fuck off once, they’re trying to be caring but they keep bouncing him between each other like newly made parents. He knows that he’s badly injured, hell, it’s like he witnessed the damage being done or something. He appreciates the help, thinks it could do with a little less pressing against his back but doesn’t speak, their concerned faces filling his vision enough to bring back some of the decency he’d have if he were fully conscious, makes him grumble half-heartedly as they clean and place scratchy bandages over his torso and arms.

 

At one point, he’d tried to eat some cooked rabbit Charles had caught for them, couldn’t hold it down long enough to count as eating and resign himself to drink water and sip on some Health Tonic, John even gave him some Laudanum. He’d drifted off again when the sky began to turn a rich shade of orange.

 

Waking up again, he’d half expected to find Milton in his face but shakes off the leaking dread as he tries to push himself to a sitting position, the coat around his shoulders slinking down to his elbows. His back hurts something terrible, but he needs to stretch some, his legs feeling numb and aching. John and Hosea sit around a small fire, both looking tired to the bone and three times over miserable. Dutch is off sleeping on the stump of a nearby tree, Charles nowhere to be seen. He clears his throat, groaning when he tastes the coppery taste of blood on his tongue, spitting it out as Hosea rushes over, helping him sit up straighter and pushing the coat back to his shoulder.

 

John stands like a startled deer, looking halfway between rushing over and giving Arthur some space, “How’re you feeling?” Hosea asks quietly, ushering John to fetch the water flask.

 

“Like a golden mule,” Arthur mutters, throat hurting against the words as he clears his throat again, coughing when his spit rolls down his throat. Hosea places a hand on the back of his neck as he doubles over to the side, other hand gripping the front of the coat to stabilize him, “’m fine, y’all just like worrying,” he says after a moment, raising a heavy hand to wipe his mouth, tongue still stinging with the taste of blood.

 

“You haven’t had a good look at yourself lately,” John shoots back, handing Hosea the water, “you look like a horse had a vice against you,” he waves a hand around his face.

 

“You calling me ugly, Marston?” Arthur asks jokingly, letting Hosea baby him into sipping from the flask, water feeling cool against his mouth.

 

“Ain’t never been pretty,” John chuckles quietly, sitting in front of Arthur with his legs crossed, “How’s the head?”

 

“Peachy,” Arthur answers tightly, his vision still swims with movement, he can’t coordinate his legs for shit. He’s getting better with handling the sun, but it still makes a headache throb in his temples, makes him dizzy.

 

“You think you can eat?” Hosea asks and Arthur shakes his head, the water already has his stomach in knots, the thought of food makes bile rise in his throat, “you need to eat soon, you’ll starve if you don’t,” he sighs tiredly, one hand resting against his cheek for a second before it comes back to check Arthur's head.

 

“I’ll try later,” Arthur promised and Hosea nods at him, “how are you, other than worried?” he asks, looking at Dutch’s sleeping form.

 

“We’re fine, fed and warm,” John assures optimistically, “Charles is out hunting, said he’d seen a few deer running around,”

 

“Area’s rich in Elk too,” Hosea adds, smoothing a hand over Arthur's bandage wrist before pulling away, “We can’t stay here for long, though,” he says, looking over his shoulder, “heard a few carriages pass by yesterday, John met a few fellas out riding, seems like its getting busy and we can’t exactly pull a good back story about why we’re stowing a grumpy injured man with us,”

 

“Where are we anyway?” Arthur asks, flexing his fingers as he tightens his coat on himself, whipping slashes now back in his mind and he remembers how bad he actually might look. Bloody, bruised and starved.

 

“Out west of Van Horn, New Hanover,” Hosea answers and Arthur nods, “they had you moved fast, considering they caught you in Valentine and had you in Sisika by the next day,”

 

“I was in Sisika?” Arthur asks disbelievingly and Hosea squints at him.

 

“Yeah,” he affirms, “had you there for five days, we were there for one and a half,”

 

“No one spotted you?”

 

“Eventually one caught out bluff but he didn’t get the chance to tell anyone,” Hosea shakes his head, “Miserable place, dusty in part, moist like a swamp in others,”

 

“Yeah, people inside aren’t too pretty either,” Arthur huffs with a bitter smile, he traces the edges of his bandages as Hosea and John share an agreeing nod.

 

“Least you killed Milton and Broodworth,” John consoles and Arthur nods.

 

“So that’s his name,” he mutters under his breath, “Milton seems like a saint against him,”

 

“guards thought he was lucky to be the one in on the investigation,” John frowns as he speaks, mouth pulled almost in a pout as his brows furrow.

 

“If you could call it that,” Arthur huffs, head dropping to tuck against his chest, “most times it seemed he’s just using me like a punching bag,”

 

That kills the conversation, Hosea looking deep in thought while John looks angry, body coiled like he’s about to jump into a fight fists first. Arthur almost laughs, seeing John angry on his behalf, makes him think of the feud that’d been between them for a while now. He came to save him in the end, him, Dutch, Hosea and dear old Charles.

 


	8. Chapter 8

“I can help myself,” Arthur grumbles, leaning heavily on Charles as he and John help him get on the back of Silver Dollar. Dutch rolls his eyes as he examines Arthur closely, he looks too small in the coat around him, face sunken in and still bruised reds and blues. But he’s relieved he seems to be able to be his usual grumpy bitter self. Hosea had told him that they’d managed an entire conversation, with Arthur being sarcastic and the whole nine yards, he didn’t get to witness it though, Arthur falling asleep before he had woken.

“Say that when you’re not walking like a fawn,” John retorts, sliding Arthur’s arm from around his shoulder, helping Charles lift him up. Arthur frowns but does not comment back, swinging his leg heavily to the other side of Silver Dollar and grimacing as he hunches over himself. John raises an alarmed hand, ready to catch him if he falls but Arthur waves him off, straightening a bit and holding tightly to the empty saddle before him.

“You okay?” John asks and Arthur nods, looking halfway sick but managing to take in a deep breath and rolls his shoulders slowly, “Alright, Hosea’ll be over soon, I’ll go check on him,” John says as he backs away slowly, glancing over to Charles then turning and heading to where Hosea is tearing down their camp.

“If you feel too unwell, tell us, we’ll stop,” Dutch says and Arthur nods, “And I mean it, _tell us_ , I know you like to grit your teeth and bear it, but this is serious,”

“I get it, Dutch,” Arthur replies back, drawing out the name as he shifts on the horse, “I ain’t too keen on getting hurt more,”

“I know, son,” Dutch sighs, “No one will hurt you no more, We’ll make sure of it,”

 

Despite his reassurance to Dutch, Arthur doesn’t complain much during their ride. He can feel his stomach knot nine knots, back aching from how he holds himself. Makes them stop once when the constant shift makes him dizzy enough that he almost falls off of the horse.

Hosea had given him some ginseng with water, to put his stomach at ease at least. Only to counter it by trying to feed him some beans, only managing to get in a few mouthfuls before he feels too nauseous and refuses to eat anything more.

Charles and Dutch check on his bandages, making sure that the wounds hadn’t bled through, relieved when the bleeding seemed to have slowed. It puts them at ease as Arthur slowly collects himself and insists they continue riding.

All in all, Arthur feels pretty exhausted as the sky darkens above them, shivering lightly as he wraps himself tighter in the scratchy coat. Hosea seems to have noticed, quietly asking if he wants to rest a while. Arthur hums at the thought, sleep already dominating half his mind as he struggles to keep his eyes open. Dutch announces they’ll be setting up camp, helping Arthur down Silver Dollar as John sets up the bedroll for Arthur.

With a halfhearted smart-ass remark, Arthur drifts to sleep, John by his side as he checks his wounds yet again.

 

It becomes hazier the more Arthur is awake, brain foggy as he tries to hold a conversation, a headache always buzzing in his brain. Some days are better than others, he finds out, his wounds fluctuate between a sting and a fire, sometimes he can’t sleep, other he can’t help but. He finds himself thankful at the presence of Charles and John, always there to remind him where he is, that he’s out and safe. The most terrible days are when he wakes up, half dazed to think that he’s in that cell, hung. He can’t help but shake against the memory, body searing as he tries to grasp reality again, he knows he’s out, can feel the others around; whether it be John snoring, Dutch talking or the hissing sound of Charles sharpening his bows.

His mind doesn’t waver though, putting him again and again through the nightmare, isn’t able to pull himself from the pain and ghosting sounds of the man's voice.

 

_You want to talk yet?_

_Ready to talk?_

_Oh, I’ll make you squeal._

 

Over and over, his eyes fail to see the trees around him, only the face of the man who tormented him for days, tore his skin and made him bleed. Beyond the sound of his own labored breathing, of the whispering of his torturer, he can hear Hosea try and soothe him, bring him back above the surface. A nightmare, he repeats to himself, _just a nightmare, wake up, you can wake up, just wake up and it’ll be over._

But he can’t too frozen, can’t move his arms or feet, like he’s chained again, wrists twisted, bleeding, stinging, numb. Too many things, too many noises, some better than others. Aware of his wounds, he tries to move his arms, fight against the cloud of memories desperate to suffocate him. He tries to hit himself, anything to wake him up, pull him above water, make him see, make him breathe.

He gasps and flexes his hands, some of the numbness going away, but the voices are louder now, Hosea’s soothing one fading.

 

_Crying, big man?_

_Not so tough now, are you?_

_Did that hurt? Too bad, big man, it ain’t stopping._

 

He grits his teeth, closing his eyes desperately, _just wake up,_ he screams at himself, _pull yourself together, fight it, wake up._

He snaps his eyes open again, blinded by the brightness of the sun.

“Arthur!” Hosea pleads, “Just calm down, we’ve got you,” he assures, “just breathe, son, you’re turning blue,”

“Hosea-” I’m fine, he wants to say, but his brain flares in pain as he groans, throat tight as he coughs roughly. He hadn’t been breathing, huh, Arthur would almost laugh if his terror hadn’t still been lingering, out of all things he could have forgotten, he’d forgotten to breathe. He gasps and slowly brings himself to a regular breathing pattern, head smoothed against Hosea’s chest as the older man holds him dearly, as if Arthur will float away, which he feels like he can. He tries to speak, assure him he’s fine, he can hear Hosea’s rapid heart beating against his ear, almost puts him at ease. Something to hang on to, and as it slows, Arthur finds himself tired again, content to stay between Hosea’s arms, safe, for a moment longer.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, fair warning, I am NOT Christian so I know nothing, absolutely nothing, about the bible. I tried my best, but I have no Idea if it's even the right Bible Version, so forgive me if anything seems out of place.

The freak out had made everyone, well, freak out. They sit on edge as Hosea holds Arthur, John, and Charles looking like they’ve seen a ghost while Dutch paces in anxiousness. The cuts on Arthur’s wrists had bled again, they’d done their best to hold him down when he’d been twitching and hurting himself. It had been scary, for all of them, though they don’t understand what had made Arthur so scared, they had a guess.

After a while, when Arthur’s breathing had slowed to a restful one, Hosea had finally snapped out of his haze.

“We need to get back to camp,” he says, Dutch pauses, looking over at Arthur who’s still held to Hosea’s chest, “He’ll be better if has familiar things around him, and we can look after at his wounds better,”

“Yes, yes, you’re right,” Dutch sighs, “We’ll move, once he wakes up, for now… let him rest as much as he could,”

“Will he be okay? In the long run,” John asks quietly, “I mean, Arthur… he’s the toughest son of a bitch I know but...” John trails off with a sigh and Hosea looks down to Arthur’s sleeping face, he twitches slightly in his sleep, pain probably plaguing his rest.

“We’ll be there for him,” Hosea says instead, “We’ll be by his side, whatever the outcome of this may be,”

 

_________________________________________

Arthur wakes up with a start, nightmare at the tip of his memory fading away as arms hold him in place, “You’re with us, Arthur,” Hosea comforts, “You’re okay, we’re going to get you home,”

“Hosea,” Arthur sighs, relaxing a bit as the traces of the nightmare finally turn into a blur, Hosea shifts under him, Arthur compliantly tries to move away to give him space but Hosea holds him tighter.

“It’s okay, you can stay if you want,”

“You’re an old man, I’ll suffocate you,” Arthur mutters, Hosea chuckling quietly as he shifts his arms around Arthur, “why am I in your arms, anyway,” he asks.

“You don’t remember?” Hosea asks, sounding concerned more than confused. Arthur shakes his head and Hosea sighs, “you… you had some type of nightmare, or well you were awake, eyes open at least, but you didn’t really see anything _but_ whatever made you so freaked out,”

“Huh,” Arthur huffs, raising his hand to inspect it idly, Hosea continues.

“And well, we tried to get you to wake up, or see us, and we couldn’t so I took a note of when you were still a kid and held you,”

“But I ain’t a kid no more,” Arthur argues weakly, knowing that though he’s grown, he still feels a little safer between his father-figure’s arms.

“Worked, didn’t it?” Hosea shoots back, though Arthur can hear the smile in his voice.

“Nothing better get back to camp, or I’ll never live it down,” Arthur warns, holding no malice as he blinks sluggishly.

“Don’t worry, your reputation as a sad, grumpy and stoic old man will be untouched,”

“I ain’t old, _you’re_ old,”

“Okay, Arthur,” Hosea agrees with a chuckle.

 

____________________________________

They move again, Arthur this time on the back of Taima, from what Arthur managed to connect, they’re less than a day’s travel away from camp. He’d heard John argue that they should take it slow, it’s hot and Arthur’s already malnourished, Hosea and Dutch seemed to agree, but with a few arguments from Arthur himself; they yielded.

They ride, leaving behind the greenery in exchange of the dry land, Arthur knows this part, just east of Valentine. He realizes slowly that they must be close now, Camp is a few minutes ride from Valentine, which logically means they’re almost at their destination.

Charles slows as they navigate, finally, as the evening starts to breaks the warm sun’s rays, Arthur notices the familiar woods hiding their camp. He can feel something loosen in his chest, feels a little bit of safety seep in through the jagged lines of his mind-state.

He visibly brightens with the rest as they trot through the trees, _finally,_ Arthur thinks, _home._

“Who’s there?” Bill shouts rifle held high as Charles and Dutch come into view, “you’re back!” he shouts gleefully, “Everyone, Dutch and the others are back!”

The camp rustles louder as everyone leaves their station, Dutch rides in front of Charles, cooling the camp as John and Charles help Arthur off the horse. Once spotted, Arthur is swarmed with voices, Grimshaw being the loudest, asking and demanding answers. They calm as Dutch and Hosea shush them, Javier now helping John in transferring Arthur to his tent as Hosea tries to explain what had happened.

 

____________________________________

“Mister Morgan?” Reverend Swanson greets quietly, “You’re still awake?” he asks as he steps in, careful not to disturb Hosea, who’d taken to fall asleep on a chair.

“Can’t sleep,” Arthur answers, he feels better, wounds now cleaned and thick neat bandages wrapping most his upper body. He’s tired, a day full of people fussing, talking and checking up on him, but the tug of sleep doesn’t come, just the lethargy of existing.

“You want some company?” Swanson asks, “I could stay a while, read something, I can’t seem to sleep myself,”

“I don’t mind, Reverend,” Arthur answers, head falling to rest on his propped pillows, “What’ll you read?”

“The Bible,” Reverend says simply, Arthur huffs with a smile, Swanson doesn’t deter “I’d been trying to re-memorize it, spent the days involving myself with it,”

“That’s nice, Reverend,” Arthur says gently, “Which part of the bible?”

“Matthews, uh, Five… Seven?” Reverend mumbles as he hastily opens his bible, “Five One, actually it seems,” he corrects, taking out the folded paper and settling on the edge of Arthur’s bed, “ _And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a mountain: and when he was set, his disciples came unto him: And he opened his mouth, and taught them, saying,”_ Reverend paused, clearing his throat before continuing, _“Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”_

 

“ _Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.”_

 

“ _Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.”_

 

“ _Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.”_

 

“ _Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.”_

 

“ _Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.”_

 

“ _Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God,”_ Reverend pauses again, catching Arthur’s eye as he nervously continues reading, “ _Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake._ _Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you._ ” He pauses, looking at Arthur again.

 

“You can continue, Reverend,” Arthur encourages, shifting to sit up better, “It’s actually helping with my headache,”

 

“Yes, I heard you got a concussion,” Reverend nods, “Would you like a certain verse, or should I continue?”

 

“I don’t really care, don’t know much about the bible to give requests,” he admits and Reverend nods, shifting before looking back down to his bible.

 

“ _Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? it is thence- thenceforth,_ ” Reverend sighs, shaking his head and continuing “ _good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men.”_

 

“ _Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on an hill cannot be hid. Neither do men light a_

_candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.”_

 

“Think not that I am come to destroy the law, or the prophets: I am not come to destroy, but to fulfil.” Arthur says, remembering the verse and Reverend nods, “For verily I say to you, Till heaven and earth pass, one jotted or one tittle shall in no wise pass from the law, till all is fulfilled.”

 

“Mostly correct,” Reverend smiles, “For verily I say _unto_ you, Till heaven and earth pass, one _jot_ or one tittle shall in no wise pass from the law, till all _be_ fulfilled.” he corrects, “Grammer, doesn’t seem important,”

“Old English isn’t easy to remember, Reverend,” Arthur points out.

“Believe me, I know,” he replies, “When I was a brother, it’d been hard for me to remember the correct way the bible had been written, I’d remember the interpretation well, since it had been in relatively new English,”

“It must’ve gotten easy, at some point,”

“I must have not reached it,” Swanson sighs, “Shall we continue?”

“Continue we shall,” Arthur replies and Swanson looks down again, Arthur watches as Swanson mutters the verses they had already read and straightens once reaching the one they are on.

 

“ _Whosoever therefore shall break one of these least commandments, and shall teach men so, he shall be called the least in the kingdom of heaven: but whosoever shall do and teach them, the same shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven.”_ Reverend reads, voice falling into an even almost monotonous as his eyes dart around the page, “ _For I say unto you, That except your righteousness shall exceed the righteousness of the scribes and_ _Ph- Phari-,”_ Reverend stumbles, sighing before trying again, “ _Pharisees… ye shall in no case enter into the kingdom of heaven.”_ Reverend stops reading, blinking at the page

 

“ _Kingdom of Heaven_ ,” Arthur repeats, stare falling onto the sky, “Think any of us will end up in heaven?”

“I don’t know,” Reverend answers, “Some fill their lives with debauchery, me, for example, I fear I’ve disappointed our lord for so long I have ruined any chance of seeing Heaven,”

“All of us had killed men, at some point, think God can forgive _that_?” Arthur asks, “Men say that God can forgive all, uh… _All sins shall be forgiven unto the sons of men,_ ” Arthur recites, “but I just… how can God let _us_ enter Heaven,”

“Perhaps he won’t, Mister Morgan,” Reverend sighs, “What are we except believers,”

“I don’t believe, I think,” Arthur admits, “never really gave a thought to god, never really prayed,”

“You believe in our purpose, A newer, better, purer life,” Swanson points out, “You seek, Mister Morgan, maybe you should seek forgiveness this time,”

“You think God will forgive someone who don’t even believe in him?” Arthur asks, “ ‘sides, how am I supposed to _seek forgiveness_ when what’s supposed to be forgiven is _murder_ , is _theft_. Hell, even _debauchery_ ,”

“You don’t need to believe, Mister Morgan,” Reverend says quietly, “We are all but children of God, your lack of faith doesn’t erase that, you don’t have to change, perhaps you should only add kindness to your work,”

“I don’t know, Reverend,”

“None of us do, Mister Morgan,” Reverend admits, “All we do is hope, maybe you should hope too,”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't like how last chapter was, so here's one I'm more satisfied with. 
> 
> Featuring, Dad Hosea, Brother John and Dutch being Dutch.

Arthur lays like a shadow, detached from his body as he watches the darkness pass by. Some part of him wants him to be scared of the darkness, what could be awaiting in it, but Arthur does not submit to it. He can’t move, but the realization does not strike him strange. Almost as if devoid of emotion, Arthur waits.

It couldn’t have been more than a minute, standing there, watching, waiting and anticipating what will happen next. All of a sudden, as if it had been a bomb, his mind fills with colorful emotions. None too good.

 _Be afraid_ his mind says, _they’ll kill you, or worse._ But who are _they_? They, the _people_ , they, the _law_ or they, his _family_. _Be cautious_ , his mind insists, _they’ll hurt you_ , but again, who’s they? His mind spins, sending orders, demands,

 

_Be weary_

 

_Be careful_

 

_Be angry_

 

He thinks maybe he’s gone mad, it’s impossible for someone to be all that at once. The darkness fades into a pale gray, he tries to blink at the dark figures in front of him, contrasting against the ever paling background. Had they been with him in the darkness, did they wait as Arthur watched? _Be scared_ his mind whispers. Arthur can only blink, a steady hum drowning his own thoughts.

“You’ll be just fine,” a hollow echo reaches Arthur’s ears, he can feel a trickle of pain burn him, “just talk to us,” the pain grows steadily, becoming more and more hard to ignore.

“Just tell us, tell us where they are,” the echo continues, pain now bringing tears to Arthur’s eyes, becomes more and more unbearable. “They won’t do you any good,”

“Just talk,” the echo becomes closer, louder, repeating over it self in a mess of _just talk, just talk, just talk._

Arthur tries to cover his ears, pain making him call out as he crumbles to his knees, his hands don’t help to muffle the echo, now more like a bellowing voice in his ear, under-toned with a painful ringing, high and whiny like when a bullet whizzes by. He folds on himself, trying to block out the noise, the demands.

 _Just talk, Just talk, Just talk_ like a chant, in different tones, at different speeds, same voice. Arthur closes his eyes shut, unable to escape the pain burning his body or the bellows around him. It becomes unbearable, his ears ring loudly as he screams, everything becoming silenced as he opens his eyes again.

Darkness surrounds him as he gasps and pushes himself, back aching, reminding him of the hell he’d just been through. Had he been dreaming?

“Arthur!” Someone calls out, Arthur startled, _just talk_ a small whispering voice calls for him, but it does not repeat as hands grip him and hold him in place, “Arthur it’s okay, son,”

“Who-” he tries to get out, blinking, the darkness does not yield, he can’t remember, the voice sounds familiar, comforting to Arthur’s heart.

“It’s okay, son, It’s me, Dutch, you’re back home, with us,” Dutch assures, slowly, memories return to Arthur.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, “Did-did I...”

“You screamed,” Dutch says, “Scared half the camp into thinking you’re getting murdered,” he chuckles a bit, Arthur doesn’t share the gesture.

“Sorry,” he apologizes again, “why is it dark?” he asks, blinking, he couldn’t have gone blind, he can see figures of his belongings around him, the way Dutch’s chains glow ever so slightly.

“I’ll light a lantern, give me a moment,” Dutch says, Arthur feels his bed rise as Dutch’s weight disappears. _Be scared_ , another whisper in his ear, like the ghost of a memory. He shakes his head, groaning when all it did is make a headache rise.

“There,” Dutch says, the sounds of a flame rising and the smell of Kerosene filling the tent, bright orange shades the inside and Arthur sighs, happy to see no figure had been waiting for him, “Do you want to talk?”

 

_Do you want to talk?_

 

“No!” Arthur gasps, blinking as the flashes of Milton’s face fade, Dutch regards him in concern, “No-No I don’t want to talk, I-I’ll be fine,”

“It’s okay, Arthur,” Dutch soothes, “Is it about...” Dutch trails of and Arthur nods. _Of course_ , it had been about the prison, what else had fucked Arthur up more? No amount of bullets will amount to how vulnerable and miserable he’s been in that forsaken place, no guns, no family, not even the sun to guide him. Chained like a skinned deer, starved like a nobody, hit like a slave.

“I… I want to go outside for a bit,” Arthur says quietly, voice barely above a whisper as he numbly traces the white bandage around his wrist. Dutch nods, jerking his head as a sign of approval and Arthur pushes himself to his feet, closing his eyes when everything had swirled around and made his stomach tie a knot. Dutch slithers and arm under his, slotting his shoulder against Arthur’s side as he helps him stand steadily.

They walk slowly, the sound of crickets and bugs buzzing make Arthur relax as Dutch leads him to the campfire where Charles regards them wearily. Most of the camp had gone back to sleep, those who didn’t either reserved themselves to sit by the cliff or on the table. John waves at him when Arthur catches his eye, Arthur nods in acknowledgment as he painfully sits by the logs.

“How are you, Arthur,” Charles asks calmly, tearing his gaze from Arthur’s bandaged chest to his eyes.

“Fine,” Arthur grumbles, letting Dutch prod at him, “Sorry if I woke you up,” he adds, shifting as Dutch pulls on his shoulder. Finally satisfied, Dutch sits on a crate, quietly taking out his pocket watch to check the time.

“I don’t mind, wasn’t getting too much sleep anyway, Bill snores like a bull,” he says with a hint of a smile and Arthur lets one grow on his face. They drop into a silence, Dutch pulling a cigar from his pocket and lighting it, Arthur flexes his fingers, looking both sides of camp as paranoia creeps in. The campfire is casting shadows, far enough that he can see Karen and Mary-Beth sleeping peacefully at the far side of camp, can see Hosea sitting by the lantern and reading one of his novels. But he can’t see what’s in the trees, could be a wolf, could be a lawman, could be Milton and Broodworth.

 _They’re dead_ he tells himself _I killed them_ or has he? He’d stabbed them, left them bleeding, but they could have survived could be tracking them _right this second_ could fire at them in a blink of an eye, and they’re all asleep, most asleep, they’d be dead before they can pick up a gun.

Where _are_ his guns? Most are on his horse, but he hasn’t seen him around, could be lost, could be dead. But then that means Arthur is defenseless, means he lost his weapons, he doesn’t even have a knife on him. He glances to the other side of the trees, half expecting to hear a gunshot, to hear a yell call out his name, a demand, an order. He glances back and forth, ears beginning to ring. They won’t be able to escape, no weapons, asleep, tired, off their guard, he can’t even hold himself up right, how is he suppose to defend his family.

He would have brought it down on them, they must’ve tracked him down, he heaves a breath, mind aching in panic as his vision blurs. Tears, he realizes, he’s crying like a coward, like a child, like someone who can’t defend himself.

“Arthur,” someone says gently, Arthur gasps against his own tightening lungs, “Arthur, it’s me, it’s John, Arthur,” John says, “You’re making Hosea and Dutch really worried, Arthur,” he continues, voice slowly bringing Arthur to the situation at hand, “You’re holding your breath, Arthur, come on, brother, breathe in,” John soothes, Arthur follows his words, forcing a breath into his lungs, mind fogged as he focuses on John’s voice, ignoring the white noise in the background, “that’s real good, now, I need you to talk to me,”

 

_Talk_

 

Arthur flinches like he’d been burned, backing away from John. He struggles to control the spiral that had become his mind, voices drown in and out, like he’s underwater.

 

 _Talk_ he had said, so many times, so many hits after.

 

A demand, it has always been a demand, one that Arthur refused to meet, _Just talk_ a whisper, he finds himself panicked again. Oh, he’s breathing all right, can feel himself hyperventilate. Someone holds his hand firmly, Arthur realizing he’d been holding his wrist painfully tight, can feel the blood pulse back to his fingers, “Arthur,” another voice, Hosea, he recognizes, “Arthur, can you tell me my name?” easy enough, he knows Hosea’s name.

“Hosea,” he croaks.

“That’s right, what’s my second name?”

“Matthews,” Arthur answers.

“Good, what year is it, Arthur,” Hosea asks, another easy question,

“1899,” Arthur answers, the hold on his hand loosens, another hand coming to his shoulder.

“Great, now, where are we? Can you tell me where camp is?” Hosea asks and Arthur nods, “say it then, come on,”

“Ne-near Valentine, south of it, Horseshoe Overlook,” Arthur says, he can feel the panic slowly fade into a thrum in his veins.

“That’s very good, Arthur, now, can you open your eyes?” Hosea asks gently, “Come on, just look at me, take your time,” he urges, but it doesn’t make Arthur anxious. He hadn’t even realized he had his eyes squeezed shut, all senses deprived by childish panic. He opens them, slowly, testing if he can handle the light. It takes a few moments, but Arthur finally looks at Hosea, blinking as he calms down.

“Hosea,” Arthur whispers and Hosea smiles reassuringly, “I-I… Sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” he apologizes quietly, looking down to his hands, one hand still held firm between Hosea’s.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Hosea says, squeezing Arthur’s hand before letting go, “feeling better?”

“Yeah,” Arthur nods, “thank you,”

“Always, Arthur,”


	11. Chapter 11

Sleeplessly, the night passes. Arthur had urged Hosea and Dutch to sleep, with promises of physical removal if they kept insisting on staying up. They look like ghosts, eyes dark with exhaustion. He couldn’t annoy John or Charles into sleeping, John had downright refused and Charles had fixed him a glare that made Arthur give up on the spot.

 

He sits by a groggy Lenny, silent as Arthur twists a twig between his finger. He longs for his weapons, wants to go out and try to find Buck, his horse, and retrieve his belongings, at least his hunting knife. Most of them are old but valuable to him, the first pistol Dutch had bought him, the Hunting Knife Hosea had given him, the rifle he hunted with for so many years. He doesn’t even know if his satchel is back in the prison along with what little clothes he had on during the capture. He doesn’t even have his Bandoliers.

 

Lenny passes him a cup of coffee that had been passed by Pearson, who greets them cheerfully. Arthur raises his head in a thankful gesture, eyes not leaving the twig in his hand, barely longer than Arthur’s finger, it twists around it, on the verge of snapping, he lets it straighten again, taking a sip of his coffee and the returning to the task at hand. How long can the twig take the strain, he’d already chipped parts of it, wood clippings dusting the area of the table under his hands. From behind the dark color of the twig, slivers of pale brown, almost white, appear. The product of the strains.

 

He twists it more, using his middle finger as a bridge to prop the twisted area. With his index finger, he pushes the twig outwards, bending it away from its twisted end. The twig strains, breaking at the surface to reveal more of the milky brown inside. He doesn’t relent, pushing further, feeling his wrist ache at the awkward position, but he doesn’t stop till he hears the twig break, falling into two pieces, on between his fingers and the other on the table. He worries his lip for a moment before swiping the twig of the table, letting the one between his fingers fall beside.

 

He pushes himself to his feet, holding onto the table tightly as the world morphs and settles. Grabbing his coffee, Arthur heads to the cliff, standing on the edge and carefully sitting on it. He squints against the sun but soaks in the sunlight happily. He’d taken to not have a shirt on, the bandages had caught onto the sewings and shifted far too often to be comfortable. He’s comfortable enough with the three layers of gauze and bandages protecting his gashed body, feels almost like a mummy but doesn’t complain. Better than sepsis.

 

Footsteps crumble the rocks behind him, he flinches on instinct, forcing himself to relax as John places himself beside him. “Thought you might appreciate having this back,” he says, passing Arthur his hat. Something loosens in his chest, the worn leather slipping into his palm bringing a sense of peace over him, he runs his thumb over the welted parts, from bullets, knives and the good old rocky plains of America, “Uncle found it near Valentine, cleaned it up for you,” John explains as Arthur fits the hat over his head, “Couldn’t find Buck, but he was never a good tracker, was thinking maybe Charles and I could go,”

 

“Thanks,” Arthur says, looking down at where his feet hung in the air, trees under them, “think I could come with?”

 

“Oh, Arthur, you know I-I would take you with us, but,” John stammers awkwardly, “you’ve got your concussion and… you know,” he gestures towards the bandages, “a ride out wouldn’t be the best, ‘sides, you need to lay low for a bit, Karen said she already heard talk of bounties getting set up,”

 

“Christ, makes me feel like I escaped a prison or something,” Arthur huffs and John snorts beside him, “I appreciate it, you know,”

 

“I know, Arthur,” John assures, “you’d do the same,” he adds, leaning back on his palms. Arthur looks at him for a second, nodding to himself. He would, no doubt.

 

_______________________________

 

He’s bored out of his mind, nothing to do, not even chores. Grimshaw had given him an earful and a half when he had tried to pick up the hay, Pearson had blocked him from the buckets filled with dirty water, Javier had taken the wood chopping duty when Arthur had _looked_ at the axe too long. Wholly unfair, he doesn’t even have his journal to scribble in and doesn’t feel like chatting up anyone.

 

“Never were the lazy type,” Hosea says as a greeting, planting himself across from where Arthur had resided himself by the fire, “Uncle would have chirped if he got the same treatment,”

 

“Uncle is useless,” Arthur replies dryly, no real malice or ill intent in his voice, “I don’t like being useless,”

 

“The thing is, Arthur,” Hosea smiles to himself, “you’re not being useless, you’re healing so you’d go back to your work healthy and not die on us because you’re too much like a wild mule,”

 

“That an insult, Old man?” Arthur asks rhetorically, rolling his eyes, grabbing a stick and throwing it into the fire, “Still, feels like I should be doing something other than sitting around,”

 

“You could talk, you know,” Hosea says and Arthur freezes, mind reeling. It’s harmless, he thinks fruitlessly to himself, it’s Hosea talking not some guard.

 

Same words, different voices. Arthur closes his eyes and tries to ignore the flashes behind his lids.

 

“Arthur?” Hosea asks worriedly, “Hey, come back to me,” he says gently, one hand touching Arthur’s shoulder lightly, “you’re safe, promise,”

 

“I know,” Arthur grits out, “I’m okay, I’ll _be_ okay,” he adds, forcing his eyes to open, squinting at the swirling trees behind Hosea’s face. A few blinks and they’re gone, Hosea smiles at him gently and Arthur tries to return the sentiment.

 

“Does it bother you?” Hosea asks Arthur stares at him in confusion, “the word… _T-A-L-K_ ,” he spells and Arthur chuckles at how absurd the situation is.

 

“I don’t know,” Arthur admits, bitter smile settling on his bearded face, “I think, maybe,” he sighs, “Lots of things bother me nowadays,”

 

“Well, we should figure out what they are,” Hosea says, “If we know what upsets you, then we can help you,”

 

“Sure,” Arthur agrees halfheartedly, “I’m upset about not being able to do nothing,” he says and Hosea laughs, brightening as he shakes his head.

 

“I’m afraid you’ll keep resting till you can stand without looking like you’re going to be sick,” he smiles brightly, “Your concussion seems to have gotten better, Dutch was worried it’ll become more severe.”

 

“I’m fine,” Arthur insists, “Not worse than riding drunk,”

 

“Don’t like you doing that neither,” Hosea points out and Arthur rolls his eyes, “Just take it easy for a while, Arthur, once we’re sure you’ll be okay, physically at least, you’ll get back to normal,”

 

“Fine,” Arthur relents, “I’ll _take it easy,_ ”

 


	12. Chapter 12

Against his promise, Arthur doesn't take it is easy. 

He tries, at least, spends his days playing poker with the scraps of money he had in his old satchel and some he found randomly in his pants. He watches Pearson cut up meat and vegetables, for the first time in around ten years, Arthur knows exactly what is in the stew. Javier plays guitar whenever Arthur sits alone by the campfire and Bill drinks with him alongside Lenny.

It was fun, for a couple of days at least. By the end of the week Arthur had practically itched with the need for his guns, itches to get out, feels suffocated being tied in one place for so long, captivated even. 

His nightmares hadn't gotten any better, gotten worse even, instead of hard to decipher shapes and shadows, Arthur's mind decides to hurt him in ways he knows would break him eventually.

It started with Milton and Broodworth, a reenactment of the torture, scenes unfolding behind his eyelids and feeling the pain like it's fresh. Those were easy to shake off. It turned into worse, instead of Milton, _Dutch's_ eyes stare emptily at him, watching as he begs him, watches as, instead of Broodworth, _John_ beats him within an inch of his life. Those are the ones that wake him up shaking, makes him push Dutch's worried hands away and lash out at everyone for the rest of the day. At the back of his mind, he knows it's not their fault, but he can't help it, some type of Anger and Resentment stowed, whether, at himself or the Pinkertons or even the entire world, it's overflowing and practically pouring out of him. 

Finally, at the end of the week, Charles strode in with a small gleam in his eyes that Arthur recognized as excitement and behind him, Arthur's steed trotted carelessly, shaking the flies away from its head as Arthur does his best not to run towards it. "Found him by the Dakota river," 

"Thank you, Charles," Arthur says, realizing that he's got a big probably silly smile plastered on his face. Whiskey snorted as Arthur gets closer, taking a few steps before pushing his face into Arthur's chest. Arthur winces slightly but laughs to himself as he brushes residual dirt from his mane.

"No need," Charles says, dismounting and laying his hand on Whisky's shoulder for a moment before letting it drop, "Javier and I, we're heading to the Valentine Saloon, think you can join?" Charles proposes and Arthur tenses, mind playing back what happened last time, flashes of the chase, the Sheriff's face stretched in a wide smile as he handcuffs him, "John took down the bounty posters, had to fight a hunter about it," Charles continues, turning to Taima and brushing her mane gently, "Could go to the Sheriff and sort some things out if you're worried about it," 

Arthur shakes his head, hand frozen on Whisky's mane. He could finally get out, he'd been practically  _drooling_ over the thought for so long but it comes with so many risks. Whisky sneezes, jerking Arthur into reality and Charles waits patiently for him to answer. "If it comes to it, maybe, but...let's just not get into trouble and see if we can  _not_ get identified,"

"Sure, Javier 'll meet us there, want to head right now?"

"Sure,"

* * *

 

Arthur should have realized that fate hated him by now, at least. Nothing really goes his way, not jobs, not money and never romance. The Saloon is rowdy and loud, makes Arthur spring a headache instantly, one that he hopes he can drown in booze. Javier is already waiting for them, brightening as Arthur strides behind Charles, feeling surprisingly anxious. "Ay, ladies," Javier says, motioning towards Arthur and Charles, "These are my friends, Arthur, Charles, meet Anastasia and Riley," Javier introduces, gently taking Anastasia's hand as Charles takes Riley's and kissing it in a gentlemanly manner. 

"Look at what we have here, Ri," Anastasia purrs, Javier letting go of her hand as she extends it to Arthur, who begrudgingly takes it and kisses it in a similar fashion to Javier and Charles, "Big _burly_ men,"

"Oh, please," Riley squeaks, placing a gentle hand on Arthur's shoulder, "We all know that this one is a  _pussy_ cat," She purrs challengingly and Arthur rolls his eyes, "Under all that muscle and  _tough guy_ act," she continues and Javier nods along, passing a lighthearted glance towards Arthur as he steps in.

"Yes, yes, Exactly, he's a pussy... _cat_ ," he says and Arthur shifts on his feet as the women turn their attention to Javier, "Right, Arthur?"

"Sure," he replies, "I'm going to get a drink," he says dismissively as he passes Charles, leaving Javier to charm the women. Charles passes him a nod, turning to Anastasia and putting on a charming smile. A

Arthur settles himself by the bar, ordering a whiskey and watching the public go by. It's only one shot in when Bill comes barreling through the door, drunk as a skunk and already butting heads with a stranger. The women Javier and Charles were charming scurried off at the signs of a fight and Arthur begrudgingly rolls his shoulder as Bill shouts and punches the man he quarreled with. The man beside him turns to him and grabs him by the shoulders, pushing him to the ground. Arthur groans, pulling himself to his feet and pushing they guy as he tries to punch him, landing a punch of his own. Another man tugs Arthur backward, pushing him against the nearest table and punching him squarely at the jaw. Arthur kicks him away, ignoring his aching body in favor of grabbing the man by his collar and pushing him to the ground, kicking him in the ribs and taking a step back when the man doesn't get back up.

Charles, Javier, and Bill are busy fighting off their own brawlers, Bill pulling the short straw for once and having two men hold him while a third chokes him. Arthur stalks behind the man holding Bill against the wall, grabbing him by the shoulder and punching him in the gut, he doubles over and Arthur takes the chance to knee him in the face. "What the hell is happening down here?" Someone shouts and an unmissable man trudges down the stairs, the Bartender says something but Arthur is focused on Javier charging at the man, Tommy. Charles and Bill are still fending for themselves and Arthur is fairly sure Javier is a punch away from getting knocked out. His back aches, a lot, but the need to help Javier is stronger than the pain and so he steps to pry the man off from Javier where he is currently getting beat  _into_ the table.

"Hey, why don't you take on someone closer to your size?" Arthur calls, Tommy dropping Javier like a bag of flour and instead, grabbing Arthur by the collar, throwing him over the table. Charles yells, and Arthur barely gets to see Javier stand in alarm before he's thrown out of the  _goddamn window_.

 _Shit_ , Arthur groans internally, rolling and pushing himself off the ground, thankful that he wore his vest today or else his back might get into serious trouble. Tommy exits the Saloon, and Arthur awaits him. Valentine seems to have been waiting for a brawl, the hotel manager and most store clerks crowding around them, chanting for Tommy to  _show him how it's done in Valentine!_

And fuelled by the cheers, Tommy lunges at Arthur. There is no doubt in Arthur's mind that his luck is so absolute  _shit_ , that he managed to pick a fight with the town's brawler. The biggest, dumbest, _drunkest_ man around. Doesn't help that Arthur is still sore and Tommy takes a likening to hit him in the stomach, he can almost feel the stitches rip, but he knows that the wetness of his clothes is from the mud they're in. Charles, Javier, and Bill stand back after Arthur had very determinedly told them to  _back the fuck off, I'll handle it!_

"I'll bury you, boy," Tommy snarls in his ear, pushing his face into the mud as Arthur kicks fruitlessly, "Look at you," he sneers and Arthur can feel the familiar anger bubbling in his chest, untamed and dangerous. Arthur stills, grabbing a fist full of mud and slapping it into the side of Tommy's face, it does the required effect and Tommy backs off ever so slightly, Arthur seizes his opportunity to punch him, pushing him to the ground and stepping over him, caging him with his legs. The mud sticks to him uncomfortably, sludges down his neck and into his shirt which does nothing to cool him off. An entire week of anger pills out, punch after punch, even when Tommy stopped fighting back. With every strike, Arthur sees a flash of a face that wronged him, Milton, Broodworth, his  _father,_ all in cycles, until Tommy's face is a mess of blood and mud and only  _then_ does he realize that a man had latched onto his arm, trying to push him off the now unconscious Tommy. 

"Please, sir, that's enough!" the man cries, and Arthur shrugs him off, fists coming up before he can stop them and Arthur pauses as the man cowers back, "Sir, please, don't kill him," He pleads and Arthur looks down at Tommy's face, replaces it with his own, the satisfaction he'd built bursting into a bright bubble of guilt. He pushes himself off his knees, the pleading man scurries backward and Arthur fixes him an angry glare, more at himself than anything as he turns and pushes through the crowds. 

It's surprising when he comes face to face with Dutch, his worry turning to anger, then, worry again as Arthur approaches him, "Don't tell me that-"

"He  _started it_ ," Arthur cuts off, tired and grumpy and just wanting a bath.

"Arthur you're still not strong enough to go around punching men," Dutch argues back, taking Arthur's jaw between his hands and wiping away the mud to check on his bruises. Arthur tries to push him off but resolves when Dutch stares at him with a determined glint in his eyes. 

"I took him down, didn't I?" Arthur replies, voice quiet as the fatigue and tiredness settle in. He has to admit, the punches hadn't done anything to help his headache, maybe even acting as a damper on his progress with his concussion. Finally, with a sigh, Dutch lets go of Arthur's jaw and wipes off the mud on Arthur's sleeve. They share a chuckle at the gesture as Javier, Bill, and Charles join them, all varying in states of beat up. Bill nestling a bruise on his cheek, Javier cracking his jaw and Charles...well actually Charles just waits for a verdict looking generally unscathed. 

"Come on, before someone gets it in their mind to call the sheriff on you," Dutch says after a small berate between him and Bill and Arthur nods, the idea of any type of law rousing an uncomfortable knot in his throat. He whistles for Whisky, waits patiently as the others follow suit, and pulling himself into the saddle once all the horses round around. 

"For what it matters, you did a pretty good job," Javier congratulates after a moment as the five of them exit Valentine, "for a few there I thought he had you, was about to start shooting,"

"That's the last thing we need right now," Arthur replies dryly, though he smiles slightly against the drying mud on his face, "Wasn't too hard to beat up, anyway, once you get him on the ground,"

"Sure, Arthur," Bill rolls his eyes, "Man looked the size of a hotel,"

"That's a testament to your eyesight, _Marion,"_ Arthur teases, chuckling at Bill's angry  _hey!_

 


	13. Chapter 13

Arthur didn't know what he expected, really, he counts himself a moron for forgetting that everything is not normal, that coming back with a bruise wasn't a blessing. Hosea had been on his ass ever since he had returned, muddied and bloodied but happy and relaxed, some tension bleeding out and no longer does the sight of the camp make him feel enclosed. Dutch had gotten a fine piece too about letting Arthur fight, erupted into a full-blown argument between Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur.

"I'm fine," Arthur insisted, but Hosea wouldn't listen. The headache bouncing around his temples hurt enough that his could feel it behind his eyes, he just wanted to get clean and pass out for a few hours. Somewhere in his mind, behind all the pain and annoyance, he knows that Hosea is just worried, and he'd been putting them through a load of stress, isn't even pulling his weight anymore and maybe it's that realization that makes him hold back his retorts and listen as Dutch and Hosea go back on forth. Mostly, the argument is about Dutch leaving Arthur unsupervised, which ticks Arthur off but he keeps his mouth shut.  

Eventually, Arthur slithered away while Dutch defended his case. By that time his skull was seconds away from cracking under the pressure of his headache, and he still needed to get cleaned up before he can allow himself to sleep the exhaustion away. He successfully makes it to the wash buckets, albeit feeling like he had drank an entire whisky bottle, and drowned his face into it. The mud had caked his face and hands and scrubbing them off was just entirely too time consuming when his bed was waiting for him and the promise of relief is present. He understands now what Hosea meant, he's regretting the fight with his very soul, the temporary relief wasn't worth it, he could've just snuck away and chopped some wood or even punched a tree for god’s sake. 

But as he learned so many years ago, you can't change the past; can only suffer its consequences. 

Finally, when his hands are recognizable, Arthur heads to his best, shrugging off his vest and not bothering to take off his boots. On a normal day, he would've at least changed into something that wouldn't stain the bed, a habit Grimshaw had installed into every last one of them. He used to take off his boots but after blackwater, ever since Colter and the days he'd been woken to fight off intruding animals or to make rounds around the camp; he decided that it's better if he didn't have to take the extra time of putting them on. 

The bed squeaks under his weight, a testament to its age, he can't help but notice how big he'd gotten for it. He first bought it when he'd been nineteen, sick of waking up with insects crawling into his ears and over his face, he'd first offered it to Hosea, seeing as how he still slept on the ground of his tent, but he had insisted that he enjoyed being close to the ground, and Arthur didn't ask much back then and accepted that the bed he'd bought is rightfully his. His legs dangle now, as oppose to how he could still stretch in it when he first got it, his arms hang off the edge and he can't seem to fit himself wholly on it. It had never bothered him, not until now at least. He closes his eyes; the sun had started to set, and he is thankful for the dimming light. 

He tries to sleep, tries to let himself drift away into a peaceful abyss hopefully devoid of dreams or nightmares. But he  _can't_ , everything is too loud, the clinking of glasses from where Uncle drinks, the laughter of the girls joking together, the footsteps of Kieran while he's tending to the horses. Like a hammer in his skull, it throbs, and he finds himself angry again. He clasps a hand over his ear, pushing the side of his face into the pillow but it does nothing to help. He can still hear the thump of Pearson chopping up an animal, the constant buzz of nature, the way the fire crackles. Too much and too loud. Things he used to take comfort in, too much now, the way Jack is crumpling up leaves as a pass time, Charles sharpening his knives, the constant clink of spurs. He can hear it, somehow, from under his palm. 

His headache spikes, and he pushes himself to his feet in a swift movement. His vision blurs for a moment and he accidently bumps into his table, it creaks, his mother's photo falls face forward with a thump. Arthur holds his head with one hand, glaring at the ground as the sounds become ever more prevalent. Footsteps, voices and general noises of nature. 

He just wants some quiet, somewhere he can rest until his head isn't threatening to burst.

A shriek fills the air, one Arthur recognizes as Karen's laugh, but it's not a happy sound to him anymore, it's like the squeaking of a train coming to a halt. He presses his palm to his eye, forcing back some of the pain as he stumbles out of his tent.  The camp will never be quiet, he knows it; he needs to find somewhere quiet, but he doesn't want to be alone, too many things at steak. He doesn't have an escape, his only option is to deal with this, like he deals with everything else. Alone.

Maybe he can drown himself in liquor, enough to pass out or at least numb his surroundings. But his stomach coils at the prospect of digesting anything. His head spins and he curses at his existence. Reverend passes him a greeting, Arthur winces at him but doesn't say anything, the pain now travelling down his neck like a horrid snake. 

He looks around, slowly and spots the campfire burning bright, too bright, brighter than it should be. He can't sit there, his eyes will probably pop out and roll on the floor from the pain alone, he needs somewhere dark, quiet and safe. Nothing qualifies as all three here. Horses neigh, Bill talks nonsense, the fire crackles, and Arthur can't help but stow in his pain and growing anger. He wouldn't be like this if it weren't for the Pinkertons, he realizes, he would've been sitting and listening to Bill, he would be taking comfort in the sound of life not crippling in pain because of it. 

"Arthur?" Too loud, it's too loud, he knows it's probably normal for everyone else but it might as well be a scream for him. He turns to it, drops his hand from his head and forces himself to drop the grimace he'd adopted. Hosea is standing in front of him, face knitted in familiar concern and Arthur will appreciate it at a later time, when the world isn't ten times louder than it should, "How're you feeling?"

 Arthur blinks, realizing that his jaw had clenched itself painfully, and he forces it to relax, flexing it till he can bring himself to speak, "I'm fine," He replies, though not as casual as he wished, his body won't bend under his commands, he talks from behind his teeth and his vision darkens slightly and his pulse becomes painful behind his ears. He closes his eyes, swaying for a moment and focuses on his breathing, not the sound of wood burning or the stomps of nearby horses. Hosea latches a hand on his forearm and Arthur realizes how unstable he really is, is free arm involuntarily coming up to cover his ears. 

"What hurts?" He asks and Arthur hums in response, he can't force himself to relax anymore, his muscles coiled tight like a frightened snake.

Hosea pulls him gently, Arthur opening his eyes as Hosea pushes him to sit and Arthur complies. An owl hoots, a fly flies close, the fire  _crackles_ , nothing would stop, nothing would pause. "Head... it hurts," Arthur admits quietly, and Hosea pulls away, once his arm is free, Arthur presses it to his ear. It does little to help, but at least the sounds are muffled. Hosea comes back, Arthur hadn't even realized he left, he's holding something in his hands, some type of bottle and he unscrews the top.

He pulls one of Arthur's hands away from his ear, instead pressing the bottle into his hand, "It's medicine, should help calm down the headache," He assures and Arthur blinks, fingers twitching around the bottle. He's pretty sure he'll throw up if he so much as takes in a breath wrong, but he pulls the bottle to his mouth, forcing the bitter medicine down his throat and blinking against the tears forming in his eyes. It's downright pungent, burning its way down his system, but he holds it down, anything to let the headache go away, maybe after it he won't be so pissed at nature and its sounds. 

"Thanks," Arthur says quietly and Hosea nods, taking back the bottle and examining Arthur closely, eyes raking his face and if he weren't so focused on keeping the medicine inside his stomach, he would've squirmed under the scrutiny. The sounds are still loud, the fire is still too bright, but there's a promise of relief at the end of his efforts, maybe then he could sleep, sleep for a week and a half or until Dutch comes up with a way to get them west. The medicine numbs his tongue and makes the fatigue more prominent, his eyelids feeling heavy, closer to passing out from blood loss than the tiredness of sleep deprivation. He can feel his body numb, fingertips and toes, a pleasant fuzz covering the headache slightly, but the pressure is still there and it still throbs, but slowly, numbness replaces it and Arthur can take consolation in that. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is more of a study about Sensory Overload for PTSD patients, and Stroke signs in patients of brain damage more than anything, it's a real nasty thing. I know not much happens but I like practicing medical accuracies and this is what I had written. My IGCSE exams finish in June so that's no fun, I already have a few plans for future chapters of my unfinished works so yeah, these aren't abandoned.


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